Part III of In the Valley of the Dry Bones by R Jack Winter
In a long line of marching skeletons — the clatter of moving bones would assault its ears if the skeleton had any — the first of its kind places one boney foot before the other to advance across the desert wasteland to the wall of a great city. Its broad sword raised, the skeleton slices the air as if killing human beings but no one is there. The desert is empty, the wall is secure. The skeleton slides the broad sword through its rib cage, places its fingers onto the wall and climbs. The movement up the wall is awkward but effective. At the top, the skeleton falls into the courtyard below, breaks apart like pick up sticks. The bones come back together, one by one. The skeleton takes the broad sword and stands.